I chose my own way of life--a middle course between simplicity and luxury--a judicious mingling of home-like peace with the gayety of sympathetic social intercourse--an even tenor of intelligent existence which neither exhausted the mind nor injured the body.
I dwelt in my father's villa--a miniature palace of white marble, situated on a wooded height overlooking the Bay of Naples.

My pleasure-grounds were fringed with fragrant groves of orange and myrtle, where hundreds of full-voiced nightingales warbled their love-melodies to the golden moon.

Sparkling fountains rose and fell in huge stone basins carved with many a quaint design, and their cool murmurous splash refreshed the burning silence of the hottest summer air.

In this retreat I lived at peace for some happy years, surrounded by books and pictures, and visited frequently by friends--young men whose tastes were more or less like my own, and who were capable of equally appreciating the merits of an antique volume, or the flavor of a rare vintage.
Of women I saw little or nothing.

Truth to tell, I instinctively avoided them.